


Maybe

by simmyschtuff



Category: House M.D.
Genre: BDSM, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-05-16 17:32:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19322851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simmyschtuff/pseuds/simmyschtuff
Summary: I don't think anyone bought the banker story.





	Maybe

He laughs, shakes his head when he finds out, but honestly, Foreman just doesn't get it. He tries to brush it off as he leaves the office ( _certainly_ wasn't thinking about it all day), but it clings, following him past his door step, sits noisily on the couch next to him and clamors into the shower behind him. Foreman stands under the spray, unable to shake it off, beginning to suspect it'd be just as loud in bed as it was all day, and the last thing Foreman wants is to _dream_ about it. With a sigh, he decides the best way to deal with it would be just that -- dealing with it.

Lathering himself, he thinks about it, and washing himself off, he decides he just doesn't understand the appeal.

All kidding aside, it's just weird, to imagine. Leather boots and collars and chains and whips. . . . He can't see it as anything but a waste of time. And, all kidding aside, it doesn't seem like something adults, full grown men and women, should be investing so much time and energy in.

And it's strange to visualize Chase as sexual on any level -- he can actually feel the shift in his mindset when it happens-- but that's obviously what whoever pulled him in there saw him as.

The leather, though, he can't get over the leather. It's . . . goofy. But he supposes, there's some appeal in imagining Chase, waiting obediently. Chase, passive on his knees, blindfolded. 

He tries to break it off there, pictures Sharon's heaving chest, Catherine's moans, but apparently it feels as though it wasn't given enough proper attention, stomping and whining until he finally releases any shame he might have about imagining a coworker in sexual circumstances -- Safe words. He didn't know much about that world, but he knew that; wonders if Chase had one. What it was, if he used it. If he cried. 

He wonders if Chase got off on pain, getting whipped, but discards it immediately, Chase is so . . . fragile. He wonders if he stayed with one partner, or was traded off. Women, men or both? For the purposes of this fantasy, these fifteen minutes, his fisted hand, his aching cock, Foreman decides in a surprisingly collected tone -- yes, both. Foreman's pretty sure blond hair, blue eyes, pink lips and pale skin would be in high demand. 

Did he suck anyone off? He backs away from that almost immediately, it seems too personal, too intimate, even though he'd honestly be surprised if Chase had been with a man and they hadn't made use of his mouth.

Foreman bites his lip, closes his eyes and lifts his face to the spray, remembers earlier today; Chase, thin wrists in plain view as he leaned forward, across the table, slight pout as House mocks mocks mocks from across the room. This is dangerous, thinking of the mundane while jacking off, thinking of what he'll surely see tomorrow, but he pictures Chase licking his upper lip as he reads, concentrating particularly hard, and can't bring himself to care.

Did he learn anything with those people, that scene? He's so blatant now, and, oh, fuck, that sends images of Chase, a younger Chase, wide eyed and cocky, going straight into the lion's den and getting spread on the altar. 

He'd go along with anything. If presented in a slick enough package, he'd be so willing, so eager. 

He wonders if they made him beg, if he was fucked, if he rode someone. He's not sure such a thing would be allowed in those circles. What he's seen of them fucking seems to revolve around restraints, being tied down, but it seems pretty hot to Foreman, Chase's hands resting on some ludicrously huge man's chest, using it as leverage to lift his hips, lower, fucking himself on a cock, whimpering and wriggling, cause he was kind of new to this. 

Foreman sways in the shower, leaning against the wall, keeping his strokes light, because he knows this can go so much further. 

Did he set limits? Did he end up breaking them? Was it by choice, or was he just unable to stop it?

Is he into this kind of stuff now? If he left, why? If something went wrong -- and Foreman groans, removes his hand as he waits for himself to calm. He doesn't bother to feel bad about getting harder at the thought of what could've gone wrong. He doesn't bother to feel bad about imagining Chase, pleading, because it really, really, really hurt, but they didn't stop. 

Maybe he forgot his safe word, maybe he was just sobbing, " _Please, no, please it hurts, please, please,_ " and it just _kept going_. Maybe someone just ignored his last thread snapping. Maybe Chase caved and said it, and that someone just didn't care to stop.

Or maybe.

Maybe they didn't go far enough. Maybe they didn't take him how he wanted to be, and he squirmed, wanting more, begging for more, but it just didn't happen. 

Foreman wouldn't have that problem, and he takes a sharp breath, another moment to compose himself under the cooling spray of the showerhead.

Before this, it'd been a hypothetical, a story, imaginary. Adding that, it brings Chase closer. It brings that needing, wanting, eager Chase, right into the shower with him. Foreman could give it to him, Chase would be overwhelmed, he'd love it, he'd beg for more and then Foreman would give it, he'd push him over the edge, and Foreman comes, closing his eyes, lifting his head toward the now cold spray. It's perfect timing, it actually feels nice.

Then again, Foreman thinks, deciding on a towel for the walk from the bath to bedroom, it could've just been a banker who liked to be burned.


End file.
